


Romantic Overtures

by Sarahtoo



Series: Romantic Overtures [1]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 04:49:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4466021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarahtoo/pseuds/Sarahtoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post s3e8, Jack corresponds with Phryne</p>
            </blockquote>





	Romantic Overtures

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first-ever fanfic, and it turned out a lot longer than I intended. I'm making some assumptions--I *think* that 1929 is the right year, but I could be wrong. I'm also completely guessing at how long traveling via plane or ship might actually take, so please forgive me if those aren't right.
> 
> It was inspired by all the amazing writers here and on Tumblr--I hope to be even a fraction as good as you all are! I have no beta, though I've proofread. Please let me know what you think!
> 
> **Whew, this is way scarier than I thought it'd be, y'all! Be gentle with me!**

 

_Sunday, 1st September 1929_

_Darling Phryne,_

_Never have I received a romantic overture so compelling as your invitation to follow you to England. I cannot put into words how much I wish that I could take up this challenge, but I must attend to my duties here. I cannot leave City South bereft of the both of us! I hope that this letter will suffice to show that the desire was not lacking; indeed, please understand that the situation is completely the opposite._

_Having tasted your kisses a second time—for do not think I have ever forgotten the first time I kissed you—I find that I cannot bear to think that it will be months before I can kiss you again. I find myself reliving it at any moment my mind is not occupied (and some in which it should be); I am haunted by the sound of your words, the feel of you in my arms, the scent of your perfume, the sight of your laughing eyes, and the taste of your lips. I imagine what would have happened between us if you had not had to go, and I hope that when you return, at least some of those imaginings can become reality._

_Come home, Phryne! I miss you already; our investigations, our late-night drinks in your parlour, everything about you, except perhaps your driving. But even that I will happily experience, because it will mean that you are here again, where you belong. With me._

_Yours, Jack_

 

Jack paused, pen hovering over the paper. Could he really send this? It seemed so… revealing. But he could not leave her wondering whether he would take her up on her invitation, and he (much as he wished otherwise) could not abandon his responsibilities to do so. She needed to know, and he needed to tell her. He resolutely put down his pen and blew on the final lines to dry the ink before folding the letter and placing it in its envelope. He’d already spoken to Mr Butler to get a likely direction for Phryne in London, and he carefully wrote the address on the outside, mindful of the general messiness of his handwriting. He hoped that Phryne would be able to read the letter itself.

“Logan!” he called, as he stood to pull on his overcoat and hat.

“Yes, sir?” Logan, the constable he’d chosen to take over for Hugh Collins while that man was on his honeymoon, came to stand in the doorway of Jack’s office.

“I need to post a letter. I’ll return shortly,” Jack said.

“I can do that for you, sir, if you like?” Logan said, surprised that his inspector would not ask it right off. It seemed a minor task that he should not need to spend time on.

“Thank you, Logan, but no,” Jack said, finding himself loath to put the letter in anyone else’s care. “This is something I need to do myself.” Jack nodded at the constable and brushed past him, letter in hand.

 

*************

 

On Monday, with the letter having been sent on its way to his Miss Fisher, Jack hoped that he’d be able to concentrate on his cases. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d written that he found himself reliving their kiss, in all its glory, at the most inopportune times. His paperwork was taking him far longer to complete this morning than was his wont.

Jack smiled a little. Even in her absence, Phryne was interfering with his work. He couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

Halfway through the morning, the call came in: There’d been a murder. Jack gathered his coat and hat and headed out the door, feeling a small pang at the thought that, for once, he wouldn’t have to worry that Miss Fisher would beat him to the crime scene. He swallowed hard and focused his mind on the investigation.

That night, he sat down to write again.

 

_Monday, 2nd September 1929_

_Darling Phryne,_

_There was a murder today. Hardly worth your time, though, it was so obvious. A violent procurer met his fate at the hands—well, the shoe heels—of the women he “served.” Apparently, he had been keeping more than his share of the money they were paid, and they objected. Strenuously. Those shoes will never be the same._

_As I said, hardly worth your time, though I felt your absence keenly nonetheless. I feel it even now, as I sit writing with my glass of whiskey. As I drink this I should be in your parlour, talking through the case with you. I can see you in my mind’s eye, teasing me about the prostitutes even as you sidle closer to me as I stand at the hearth. Were we there, I would reach out my hand and pull you close to kiss your lovely mouth. You would soften against me, wrapping your arms around my neck and sliding your fingers into my hair. Oh, Phryne, I can almost feel it now!_

_Where our evening would take us from there I admit I have imagined many a time, though I am not yet so desperate for you that I have the nerve to write it out in full. If you are gone too long, that time may yet come. Or perhaps you will come home so that I may show you, instead. Come home soon._

_Yours, Jack_

 

*************

 

On Tuesday, after posting the previous evening’s letter, Jack headed into work. He hoped for a complicated case that would help him keep his mind focused and away from the wondering of whether the tiny airplane Phryne was flying could in fact make it all the way to England. He knew that she’d had an interest in long-distance flights, but did she really need to fly her father all the way to London? Couldn’t she take him to meet the ship he should have been on at its next port of call, instead? If that was her plan, she could be back in days! The idea put a new spring in his step.

But if that was her plan, why would she have given Mr Butler her direction in London for correspondence? His step slowed again. No, she was definitely going all the way to England and he’d just have to await her return. Perhaps he should go back to 221B The Esplanade to see if her staff had any idea of her expected return date? Collins and his new bride were supposed to stay there, he knew, once they’d returned from the few days at the holiday cottages that Phryne had gifted them for their wedding. He’d definitely need to stop in and ask.

At the end of the day—another long, frustrating day, with no cases that caught his interest—he headed over to Phryne’s house. Rather than knocking at the front door, he went around to the kitchen. It felt more homey that way, more like he belonged there. Mr Butler was sitting at the kitchen table, tallying accounts. The door was open, and there was a pot of stew on the stove that smelled heavenly.

“Inspector!” Mr Butler said with a smile as he looked up at Jack’s knock on the doorframe. “Do come in! What brings you by today? Did you lose the address I gave you?”

“No,” Jack said. “I was hoping—that is, perhaps you know—I mean…” He closed his eyes a moment and cleared his throat to stop his stammering. “Has Miss Fisher made any mention of when she expects to return? I was hoping that she’d be available to help me with a case that’s come up…” He trailed off, not sure why he was attempting to make up a story. Judging by the kind look on Mr Butler’s face, he wasn’t fooling the man.

“Ah,” Mr Butler said with a slight smile. “She didn’t give a precise return date, no. She mentioned that she wanted to have a visit with her mother once they arrived in London, and that she may decide to take a steamer home rather than attempting the flight on her own. I would guess that she’ll be gone at least two months, perhaps longer. I’m sorry, sir, that I don’t know any more. Shall I telephone you if I hear more precisely from her?”

“Oh, yes, thank you, Mr Butler, that would be very helpful,” Jack said, with his own slight smile. They both knew why he was asking, and their smiles communicated very well.

“Would you care to stay for dinner, Inspector? I’m expecting Mr Johnson and Mr Yates shortly, and I’ve made enough even for four such bachelors,” Mr Butler’s smile broadened. He well knew Jack’s weakness for his cooking.

“That would be lovely, Mr Butler, thank you,” Jack replied, smiling more broadly.

That evening, when he returned home to his quiet flat, he began a third letter.

 

_Tuesday, 3rd September 1929_

_Darling Phryne,_

_I spent this evening in your kitchen, chatting with your family—Mr Butler, Bert and Cec were kind enough to take pity on me and feed me a solid meal. (Mr Butler is a treasure, to be sure—if I had the means, I might try to tempt him away. I suppose I will have to visit him at your home instead.) Their acceptance of me went a long way to making me feel less as though a part of me is missing; I felt your presence in the room the entire time. Each of us, at one time or another, even postulated your response to some comment being made. It is evident that those gentlemen know and love you well. (I say that, assuming that I am any judge of such things—goodness knows you continually surprise me, so perhaps I should not presume that I know you so well at all.)_

_I had gone to your house hoping that Mr Butler could tell me what your return schedule might be. He was kind enough not to laugh at my completely transparent reason for asking, but he had no solid answer for me. Perhaps you would be so kind as to communicate that to him? I will admit, he has promised to notify me if he does hear from you, and I find myself hopeful that you will have a reason to telegraph him as soon as you have access to such a machine._

_I have written it before and I hope that you will forgive my writing it again, but I wish you here, every hour upon the hour, and every minute in between. I want your insight and your laughter; I long to hear my name on your lips as you greet me and to feel your lips on mine. I so hope that you will not have grown tired of me before you return, Phryne—if these letters are too forward, too florid, I hope you’ll forgive me. I find that my pen speaks more than my voice ever would presume._

_But shall I let my pen have its way? Tell you how I want to run my fingers through your hair, to cup your face in my palms and hold you to my kiss? I want to hold you close and breathe you in, that scent of you (not French perfume, just essence of you) that pulls my attention the moment you enter a room. I want to skim your neck with my fingers, stroke down your back and link my fingers with yours as if we would never choose to be parted. I want to kiss you—mouth, neck, shoulders, and more—until we both have to sit (or lie) down. My imagination flies at what might happen next between us two, were we uninterrupted._

_Come home, darling Phryne, and let me tell you in more than words just how much I have missed you._

_Yours, Jack_

 

*************

 

On Wednesday, Jack wrote his first letter in the morning, before leaving for work.

 

_Wednesday, 4th September 1929_

_Darling Phryne,_

_I dreamt of you last night. In my dreams, I followed you to London and our reunion was electric. In my dream, my kisses did not stop at your mouth, but followed the line of your throat and down to the curve of your breast. Your indrawn breaths and soft cries of pleasure echoed in my ears when I woke. I only wish I had stayed asleep a little longer, so that I could have dreamt some more. I long to caress your beautiful skin and hear those cries in reality. Given the opportunity, I would trail my lips from your collarbone to your navel, reveling in your silken flesh and unparalleled scent. Would you allow me these liberties? Would you let me give you even more?_

_I cannot wait to sleep tonight, in hopes that I will dream again._

_Yours, J_

 

He posted that letter, along with the previous day’s, on his way to the station, wondering if he’d gone mad to be so blatant in his desires. Surely Phryne was feeling the same magnetism that he was? They had been flirting and circling each other for so long—since before his divorce, if he was being honest. It was time, it must be time to move this romance along.

Knowing Phryne, she would be willing, but Jack hoped that he could hold her attention longer than her other lovers had. He thought it was likely, given that they were friends as well as… whatever they were. Lovers? Not yet, but hopefully soon. He loved her, he knew that, and though he wasn’t certain, he thought that she felt something more for him than she did for her usual casual flings. He did not want to think about those other men, really, though he did not begrudge her the time she had spent with them.

Jack strode through the doors of the police station, his mind consumed by thoughts of Miss Fisher and what he would write to her next. He was, therefore, startled by Constable Logan calling his name.

“Inspector Robinson, sir! You’re wanted at a crime scene, sir. There’s been a murder!” Logan’s near-excitement at this news caused Jack to tilt his head and send his best impassive stare at the constable.

“Murder is nothing to be thrilled about, Constable,” he said forbiddingly.

“Of course not, sir,” mumbled Logan, chastised.

“Lead the way, then,” Jack said, turning back to the outer door. Logan hurried to accompany him, snatching up his rounded helmet, and Jack was reminded of Collins in his early days, when he was so much more easily cowed by Jack’s frowns. Jack suppressed his smile, not wanting Logan to think Jack was amused at his expense.

As they climbed into the police car, Jack thought that at least his next letter to Phryne might have news that would distract him from the very improper things he wanted to write. And since he couldn’t seem to stop himself from writing, that was all to the good.

 

*************

 

_Wednesday, 4th September 1929_

_My darling,_

_Do you see how I have allowed myself to become so forward in my address to you? Perhaps this constant writing has lent an aura of intimacy that you will not be comfortable with. I hope that is not the case; I hope that the feelings I am acting on are as mutual as I believe. If my letters are unwelcome, please tell me so; I would not wish to importune you._

_I had a new murder case today. It took me most of the day to track down my two main suspects—the husband of the victim and another woman, both of whom were found at a bar called O’Connell’s, down by the docks. The two of them were drinking together, and it seems that the death was not intentional, but accidental; it happened during an erotic encounter that all three were sharing. The victim, in the throes of ecstasy, threw back her head and connected with the corner of a bedside table, fracturing her skull at the temple. She died instantly, and after they called in the constabulary, her two partners hied themselves off to drink to her memory. I think that the coroner will rule the death accidental, though both of her partners may be charged with indecency. When the circumstances of the victim’s death came out, blurted drunkenly from each of the other participants in this ill-fated_ menage _, I wished that you were there to share a secret smile over the sadly ridiculous outcome._

_I will admit, Phryne, that this case sparked my imagination. I do not think that I could comfortably share your bed with another person—I am not so liberal in my thinking as that, no matter how hard I try—but it did make me consider again some of the other things I have imagined happening between us. I have imagined lying with you, your back nestled against my chest and my hands free to cup your breasts, to touch you in the most intimate of ways, to caress you until you cry out with release. I have imagined sitting with you facing me, on my lap, our eyes locked as our bodies join together. I have imagined worshipping you with my mouth, my hands, my body, in so many ways._

_I would not change who you are, Phryne. Even if all I ever have with you is one night, I will take it, and gladly bear the consequences to my heart. I will, however, admit to hoping for more than one night, if only to allow us to experience all the variations on physical loving that we both can imagine. When you return, we will see what we will be._

_Yours, J_

 

*************

 

On Thursday, Jack posted his second letter of the day before, and dashed off another between bouts of paperwork.

 

_Thursday, 5th September 1929_

_Darling P,_

_I realized this morning that yesterday’s letters might leave you questioning whether your only appeal to me was the physical. I want to assure you that it is not. Even if you and I never act on the attraction between us (though that would be a pity—did I mention how many ideas I have had in that area?), I treasure your friendship, and I hope that we will be able to preserve that part of our relationship, whatever other forces hold sway upon us._

_You are a brilliant investigator, and your aid is invaluable to me. From our very first investigation (yes, I wrote “our” investigation), your insight and deductive powers have left me amazed. Working with you has become one of my greatest joys._

_Add to that your generous heart, which has helped you create a family of disparate individuals who are, nevertheless, devoted to you, and I wonder that there is any way to admire you more._

_You are a marvel, Miss Fisher. That you are also beautiful is really only the icing on the cake. Come home soon so that I may discover more of what you can do to amaze me._

_Yours, J_

 

Jack posted the letter when he walked down to the café on the corner for a bite of luncheon. He considered, as he walked, whether he should limit himself to writing once a day. The cost of the postage was enough that if he continued to accellerate at this rate, he’d be bankrupt in no time. He also didn’t want Phryne to find his correspondence to be a nuisance. But he had so much to say! Perhaps he should only _send_ one letter a day, but that restriction did not mean that he only had to _write_ a single letter a day. He could save any additional letters and give them to her on her return. He nodded to himself. That seemed a reasonable plan. He would outline it for her in his next letter.

 

*************

 

_Thursday, 5th September 1929_

_My darling,_

_I am resolved to keep from peppering you with so many missives as I have been of late. I will continue to write—I cannot seem to help myself, to be honest—but I will save some of those letters for your return. If you want to know all of my thoughts while you are away, you will just have to return home and read them. Perhaps there will be some (if I can raise the courage to write what’s in my mind and heart) that I can read to you, of an evening._

_The criminal element of Melbourne seemed to want to keep to itself today—there were no murders, no crime sprees (unless you count the group of urchins who teamed up to steal a half-dozen fresh apples from the vendor down the street from the station), not even a domestic complaint. It is good that they do not know that I am working with only half of my usual consideration, seeing as the other half is halfway around the world. If they knew, the crimes would be piling up and I would never keep up without you._

_Hugh and Dot Collins are due back tomorrow from the holiday cottages; it is kind of you to offer them your home while you are away. I imagine that if they have trouble finding a place to live, you and your other family will step in to help. If you find that you need additional assistance, I hope that you will call on me._

_I find that I have missed Collins—Constable Logan is a fine replacement, but Hugh and I have formed a kind of bond. I hope that he has enjoyed his honeymoon, and I am willing to bet that he and Dot made good use of the book you loaned them, too. It was so good of you to further their education in such a way! You thought I had missed that gift, did you not? But I am a detective (or at least, half of one), and so I detected._

_I did have a chance to look at that book (Collins had some questions, and he apparently believes that I have answers; I hope that I acquitted myself well), and I think that perhaps my education could use some furthering as well. Perhaps you and I could discuss some of my remaining questions on that work over a drink when you return? Come home soon, my Phryne. I miss you._

_Yours, Jack_

 

Jack held to his resolution—he sent that letter, but kept back another, not knowing whether he’d ever be brave enough to show it to Phryne, much less read it to her, as his letter implied.

 

_5 September 1929_

_Darling,_

_I cannot breathe, at times, for wanting you. Whether it is only the platonic pleasure of your company that I miss or the fire of my imaginings, I find myself undone by you over and over again._

_Perhaps you do not even realize how often I have had to hold myself back when I am in your presence. I meet your eyes and my breath shortens. I see your lips and my own lips tingle with wanting to kiss you. I see the nape of your neck and I have to stop myself from pressing my mouth against it. Every time you are near me, I want to touch you._

_If (when?) I am ever invited to your bed, I will begin by kissing you. First your mouth—I could feast for hours on your mouth, my tongue duelling with yours, licking and biting at your lips. Even if we do nothing else, I will consider myself lucky to spend time chest to chest with you, learning your mouth and feeling your breath mingle with mine._

_If, then, we continue, I will undress you, button by button, tie by tie. I will kiss every inch of your skin as it is revealed to me, from the curve of your neck, over the rise of your shoulder, down the long line of your arm, and along the slope of your breasts. When I turn my attention to your nipples, I will press one with my tongue and teeth while I play the other with my fingers. God, Phryne, even in my imagination, the image of my hand on your breast shortens my breath. I might get sidetracked from my journey down your body by just that sight alone. I am told that it is possible to bring a woman to her peak with only the fondling of her breasts. I would like to attempt that with you. I imagine that your skin will taste like cream and feel like velvet, except for your nipples, which will be hard as diamonds when I have properly attended to them._

_Once you have reached your first peak (you see, I am determined), I plan to continue my mouth’s trek down your body, mapping the shape of your belly (I think that my tongue would slip nicely into your navel) and the lines of your thighs. I will trace the swells of your calves with my mouth and press my lips to the arches of your feet. Then I will turn my attention to that most womanly part of you. Are you appalled by my desire to taste your feminine core? I have imagined the flavor of your juices; you will be sweet and salty, with an overlay of the musk that is unique to you. I will use my tongue and fingers to bring you to another orgasm; I will suck on your hardened peak and press into you with my tongue, lapping up the fluids your body produces in your excitement. You will arch and moan, catch your breath and possibly even cry out as you reach your climactic moment, and I will drink you down with joy._

_Only then will I undress myself, baring my body to you as I have bared my heart. I hope that you will find me even a fraction as comely as I find you. I will assist you in inserting your internal device (I will always protect you in all ways) before I press myself into you. Will you hold my gaze as I push into your body? Holding your eyes is one of my favorite things to do with you, Phryne—I imagine that I can see so many messages in them that are only for me. I will slide my hands up to meet yours, linking us together as I begin to move. You will raise your knees to my sides, and perhaps even lift one around my waist. I will kiss you again and again, on your mouth, your throat, whatever my mouth can reach as I continue to thrust into and out of your body, for I would not disengage from you for the world, my Phryne. When I can bear the pleasure no longer, I will slide one of my hands down between us to touch your pleasure button and push you into yet another climax before I allow myself to spend inside you._

_When we are replete, I will gather you close in my arms and stroke you until we both calm (for I am certain that I will be overcome in that moment). We might then sleep until we wake to start again—this is a chorus that I will happily sing over and over and never tire of it._

_I will leave off there for now, my darling. It grows late, and I have made myself unable to sleep without some way of calming down. Perhaps that will be tomorrow’s letter._

_Yours, Jack_

 

Jack sat back in his chair, his body aching from the images he’d put on paper. He hadn’t been teasing when he implied that he’d need release before his body would consent to sleep. He was sweating, he was so aroused. He quickly folded the letter and tucked it into the decorative box he’d purchased the day before for the purpose. Not a bad start, he thought.

 

*************

 

The next day, the criminals of Melbourne seemed to have woken from their slumber, and Jack was kept busy all day long. Despite his comments to Phryne, he found that she seemed to be on his shoulder throughout the day, and his detecting skills felt sharper than ever because of it.

Collins sent a note around to invite him to join them for dinner at Miss Fisher’s house, and Jack gladly accepted. He would be glad for Collins to come back to work the next day. To his mild surprise, Jack truly had been missing his constable—Constable Logan did not have Collins’ experience, and so Jack’s investigations had not been going as smoothly as they might have done. But it wasn’t just Collins’ professionalism that Jack had missed. The other man had become a friend when Jack wasn’t looking. Perhaps the years of navigating the paradoxes of the modern women they’d fallen for had banded the two of them together.

When Jack presented himself at the kitchen door of 221B, he was welcomed with good cheer, smiles and claps on the back or handshakes from the men in Phryne’s family, and even a buss on the cheek from sweet Dorothy. All in all, it was a congenial evening, with Dot and Hugh telling stories about their honeymoon holiday and Mr Butler, the two wharfies, and Jack filling the two in on what they’d missed. They dined on roasted chicken and vegetables, and Dot had made an apple cake for their dessert.

When Jack left, his belly was full and so was his heart. When he reached his flat, he poured himself a drink and sat down to write. First, he applied himself to the letter he planned to send.

 

_Friday, 6 September 1929_

_Darling Phryne,_

_Hugh and Dot returned today, and they were kind enough to invite me to join in their celebratory return dinner. They look as though their time at the cottages agreed with them; they are easier in each other’s company than they have been. I suppose that is a good sign for the success of their marriage. I wish for them an easy, lucky life—they deserve it, though both are strong enough, I think, to withstand any difficult patches they come to._

_I will be glad for Collins to return to work tomorrow. I did not realize how much of a help he has become to me. I could have used his help today—my constable and I handled a murder-suicide, two domestic disturbances, and a robbery. And the rest of City South was kept busy as well! I won’t depress you with the stories of those cases. They are all too common among the day-to-day experiences of any policeman. Suffice to say, the dinner among your family caused a welcome lightening of spirit at the end of a difficult day._

_I sit now, in my home, with my glass of whisky, wishing that I was, instead, seated across from you on the window seat in your parlour, admiring the arch of your bare feet as we discuss the day. Do come home soon, Phryne._

_Yours, Jack_

 

When that letter was complete and its envelope addressed and ready for posting, Jack poured himself another drink and began anew.

 

_6 September 1929_

_My Phryne,_

_May I call you mine? I cannot, of course, own you, though I hope that you might give yourself into my keeping, at least for a little while._

_I shocked myself a little with last night’s letter. Not the imaginings, for those are not uncommon as I sit in my parlour at the end of the day, but that I put them on paper. I may decide that I cannot so reveal the depths of my desire for you when it comes to the sticking point of giving you these letters. I cannot hide, I think, that my feelings are most serious—you have known of them for many months now, and they have not changed. Please do not feel any obligation to those feelings—if you feel anything for me, I beg that you will act upon it, but do not consider that I expect any such action._

_I wonder, in fact, that there is even a possibility that you care for me. I am a simple man, going about my simple life. You have brought a spark of joy that I never would have imagined, and I cannot fathom that a flame as bright as yours would condescend to warm such a one as me._

_But should you so condescend, Phryne, I would welcome it! I would nurture that spark to the best of my ability; I want it never to go out. I can imagine many things, but I can no longer imagine my life without you in it, even if only as my investigative partner. I might as well admit the truth: I am in love with you. And whether or not you feel the same way, the fact remains that you have my heart. I hope that you will treat it gently._

_Yours always, Jack_

 

*************

 

The next ten days moved in alternate bursts of fast and slow; Jack and Hugh dealt with two dozen cases, large and small. Jack continued to write to Phryne, at least two letters every day—one sent, one tucked away for her return. Some of the letters were long, others mere snippets, letting her know that she was ever in his thoughts.

 

_Darling Phryne,_

_Why is it that little girls in pink pinafores are so often so very unlikeable? I met one today who, at age eight, was one of the most unpleasant people I have ever met. I am certain that when you were a little girl, you were not that way; you were likely just as big-hearted and daring as you are now…_

 

_Darling Phryne,_

_I keep forgetting that you are not in town. I find myself glancing up when someone comes into the station or walks past a crime scene, expecting it to be you. One day soon, I will look up and it will be you, greeting me with a smile and a breezy “Hello, Jack!” It’s too impossibly soon for that day to be today, but I live in hope nonetheless…_

 

_Darling Phryne,_

_Today was an exciting day! We had a bit of a scuffle with a murder suspect, and he got in a few good blows on our Hugh. As you know, though, fisticuffs are something Hugh excels at; he persevered and won the day. He is now at home, being tended to by his lovely wife, who roundly abused me for putting her poor lamb in any danger whatsoever. You have had a major influence on that young lady, Phryne, not all of it good…_

 

_Darling Phryne,_

_I dreamt of you again last night, and this time, my kisses did not stop at the curve of your breast…_

 

Jack knew that he had at least another week before he could begin to hope that Phryne would be on her way home. Mr Butler had not yet had any word from her, so far as Jack knew, so chances were that she had not yet or had only just arrived in London. Jack refused to entertain thoughts of any outcome other than her successful arrival; he had every faith that Phryne would bend the winds and the weather to her will in order to ensure a safe journey.

He and Collins were wrapping up their shift on a Friday—Phryne had been gone for almost three full weeks—when Dot arrived, basket in hand.

“Good evening, Inspector,” Dot said, after greeting her husband. Their kisses were much less self-consciously given now, Jack noted, and their exchanged smiles were warm. It was plain that they were very much in love.

“Dot,” Jack said with a nod.

“Where are you off to, love?” Hugh cocked his head a little, wondering what brought her to the station at this hour.

“I brought the Inspector some dinner, courtesy of Mr Butler,” Dot said brightly. “Our dinner is waiting at home, Hugh, but this way, Mr Butler can be sure that the Inspector is getting enough to eat.”

She smiled warmly and passed Jack the basket. He lifted the corner of the napkin covering the contents and almost swooned at the scents rising from it.

“Thank you, Dot!” Jack said, smiling, “and would you please convey my thanks to Mr Butler as well? I am certain that I’ll enjoy this.”

“You’re very welcome, sir,” Dot said, her smile widening.

“Have a lovely evening, sir,” Collins said as he offered Dot his arm.

“I’m sure that I will, Collins,” Jack said, and he watched the newlyweds stroll away from the station, their heads bent together. He set off toward home, his thoughts on his dinner, but he was stopped by a messenger before he’d taken two steps away from the station door.

“Excuse me, sir,” the runner said, eyeing him questioningly. “I’m looking for a Detective Inspector Robinson; would that be you, sir?”

“It is,” Jack said. “How may I be of service?”

“Telegram, sir,” the boy said, holding out an envelope.

Jack’s eyebrows went up. “Thank you,” he said, fishing a coin from his pocket to exchange for the missive. The boy pocketed the tip and took off running. Jack slid the dinner basket onto his arm and stopped to open the message. His breath caught at its contents.

 

DARLING JACK – STOP – RECEIVED YOUR LETTERS – STOP – ARRIVING 20 OCT MAJESTIC – STOP – SEE YOU ON THE DOCK – STOP – YOURS PHRYNE

 

She was coming home! Jack’s smile was wide and joyous. He set off once more toward home, a new spring in his step.

 

_Darling Phryne,_

_I received your telegram this evening. You cannot know how light my heart is, knowing that you are on your way home. To me, whether you intend it so or not._

_I will no longer post these letters; you would not receive them, in any case, so I will save my postage. I will continue to write, however—possibly even after you have arrived here in Melbourne. I have said before that I am freer with my pen than with my voice, and I have so much that I want to say to you!_

_I plan to be waiting on the dock when your ship comes in, Phryne, hoping that when I see you, I will be brave enough to open my arms to you; hoping that you will run to me as well. My heart is beating a tattoo—‘she is coming, she is coming’—that will carry me through the remaining days of your travel._

_My Phryne, I am elated, knowing that it won’t be long now before you will here, close to me once again. I await you, as always._

_Yours, Jack_

 


End file.
